Page 11 of Wild Valentine
The thought of Mom’s bills swims in my head. The credit card debt, the medication, the pain she’ll be in if I can’t afford her meds.
“But how do I get him to talk if he doesn’t want to?” It comes out as a whisper, my throat constricted by the possibility of losing my job.
I can practically hear Scott smirk down the phone. “You’re a smart woman, Hazel. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
He hangs up, leaving me heavy with dread. I have to get this story. Mom’s depending on me. I have to get Marcus to talk.
4
MARCUS
Aknock at the door makes me look up from my laptop. I close the browser withCulture Slam’swebpage on it, not wanting whoever it is to see that I’ve been reading every piece by Hazel Lumley.
She’s a good writer, but she’s only done gallery openings and a few interviews with collectors. I wonder why she was sent to get my story.
I pull open the door and stop dead in my tracks at the sight before me. Hazel’s wrapped in one of the fluffy bath towels from the rental cabin. The moss green towel barely covers her full figure. The pale skin on her bare shoulders is dimpling in the cool air.
My gaze sweeps down her body taking in the line of the towel that pushes up her cleavage and the way she’s clasping it across her body as if the thing might fall off at any minute. The towel’s too short and her thick thighs are on display, as luscious as I knew they would be when I first saw her in that tight skirt.
My mouth goes dry, and I’m instantly hard. I want to pull her inside and out of the cold, and at the same time I want to rip the towel off her to discover if she’s wearing panties underneath.
“There’s no hot water.”
My gaze lifts to her face and the innocent wide eyes.
She has no idea what she’s doing to me, knocking on my door in nothing but a towel. If I thought she was even remotely interested, I’d rip it off her and take her here on the doorstep.
I swallow hard, not even attempting to keep my eyes off the soft rise of her breasts that swell, tantalizingly soft and creamy, above the towel.
She’s saying something but I must have missed it, because she’s looking at me expectantly.
“Huh?”
I draw my gaze back to her face, and she’s staring at me with a slight smile.
“I said there’s no hot water.”
Hot water, right. My mind’s foggy, and all I can think about is yanking the towel off her and finding out what those breasts feel like cupped in my hands.
“I went to take a shower…”
She speaks slowly, like she’s talking to a child, and finally I realize what she’s saying and why she’s here.
“There’s no hot water?”
She looks nervous, and I guess she should with the way I’m ogling her. With a monumental effort, I keep my gaze on her face. She gives me a half smile, but her eyes flicker to the side.
She’s nervous.
She should be, showing up on a stranger’s doorstep in nothing but a towel. I’m twice her size. I could pull it off and push her against the door…
“Do you think you can fix it?”
“Huh?”
“Fix the shower.”
She puts a hand on her hip in exasperation and the towel slips a little, opening at the seam and giving me a flash of upperthigh. I make out a dark spot between her legs, a glimpse of wiry dark hair.
